


These Thoughts That Blind

by AR_Stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29597544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AR_Stone/pseuds/AR_Stone
Summary: Clarke's new reality sets in, and Lexa is there to support her
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Kudos: 43





	These Thoughts That Blind

She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten where she was. Which, from what she could gather through her tears, was her own room. 

  
  


One moment, she was in class, listening “intently” to the professor drone on about half-lives, or something similar, and the next, she’s moving. Up and out of her seat, not subtle in the least, she was walking with her bag half open and books barely hanging on for the ride.

  
  


So maybe she  _ could  _ remember, but really, it was all more of a blur, more autopilot, than anything else. Her scattered mind didn’t have room for the conscious thought or effort that went into taking in the scenes as she stumbled her way through campus. 

  
  


When she comes out of this later, she’s sure to think about how she must’ve looked, disheveled, tear-faced, erratic breathing, storming across the quad as quickly as she could. 

  
  


Everything was blurry, and not only because of the salty tears in her eyes. She’s sure even if she weren’t crying - sobbing, more like - the world still would not be in focus. 

  
  


The more her surroundings came back to her, the harder it is to breathe. She’s fairly certain the opposite is supposed to happen in this situation. 

  
  


Clarke was going to be a doctor one day. She knew exactly what to expect with a panic attack. She knew it was the body, trying to protect you. The problem is there is no physical threat. It’s your own mind doing this, causing this flight response.

  
  


Your mind goes into overdrive, trying to get the  _ hell  _ away from the danger, but the danger is already  _ in you  _ and no amount of stuttered breaths with a side of self suffocation is going to change that.

  
  


Clarke also knew, while she felt increasingly out of control of herself, that she was safe. Physically she was completely safe.

  
  


Ignoring the blurred, black edges of her vision, she was going to be perfectly fine. 

  
  


Well.

Perhaps not  _ fine.  _ But. 

  
  


Better, than her current state? Yeah. Better than being so scattered that she can’t tell if she’s now hacking up her lungs because she’s crying so hard and her diaphragm is spasming, or if she’d swallowed saliva with her windpipe again. 

  
  


So. Definitely better than that.

  
  


But the pain she feels will still be there, waiting for her, slapping her when she least expects it. Surprising her, digging up buried memories like how the iphone takes a random shuffle at your photos and makes an entirely pointless slideshow, complete with background elevator music.

  
  


The memories that make her feel warm with fondness and warmth on some days, but feel closer to smacking your head on the ground on others.

  
  


At first, you barely know what’s happened. For a split second, you might not even realize the situation at all, the pain hasn’t registered yet. And then, sometimes slowly, sometimes not, the realization sets in, accompanied by varying amounts of pain. 

  
  


That first throb hits and pulses around your eyes like a bad hangover, and you know you’re in for it. 

  
  


That ache, those tell tale signs of the blinding pain to come, sometimes those are all the memories bring.

  
  


The agony is embedded so deep in Clarke’s soul, all she can do is survive the emotions that overwhelm her.

  
  


Which is what’s happening now, in the privacy of her room. She has no idea if anyone else is home, she shares a house with a few friends, and in her hazed rush in, she didn’t exactly stop to scope the place out.

  
  


The edges of her sight are still murky, but she’s definitely seeing her room more clearly now than when she first burst through the door. 

  
  


Believe it or not, it’s actually making her current frantic state worse.

  
  


Clarke had thought, at the time, that having a picture or two out for her to see would be okay. Would help her feel stable, normal, maybe. And, for the record, for the most part it helps. She enjoys the memories she’d put on display.

  
  


At this moment? It’s by far her worst decision, and she’s cursing herself for thinking otherwise.

  
  


Glancing to her left, she’s graced with a family photo, where Clarke is smiling and leaning into her mom, who’s being held by her dad. Jake Griffin, who had, quite literally, dropped dead a few months ago.

  
  


3 months, 1 week, and 6 days ago, to be exact. But hey, who’s counting? 

  
  


So maybe he hadn’t  _ dropped  _ dead. He’d had a lovely night with her mom, went about his nightly routine, and gone to sleep. Normal. 

  
  


Except. 

  
  


Except, her dad hadn’t woken up in the morning. 

  
  


Cue one missed call, a 911 text from her mother, followed by a life altering call back, and Clarke went from having two loving parents, to one.

  
  


And so, these memories Clarke had laid out for herself, today  _ especially  _ knocked the wind out of her sails like a gut punch. 

  
  


Cue more hyperventilating as she cries.

  
  


This morning, her mom had called to let Clarke know that the autopsy results had come in. They’d wanted a full work up, because as far as they knew, dad had been perfectly healthy.

  
  


Unfortunately, they were mostly right. He was as healthy as you could be, and still be dead. 

  
  


Jake Griffin had died in his sleep from a pulmonary embolism, which if you were wondering, is a blood clot that forms in the legs, and once it breaks off, there’s not much you can do. 

  
  


Apparently, it was a quick, painless death for him. Which, if that was supposed to make either Clarke or her mother feel better, it didn’t. 

  
  


That news felt like shit.

  
  


Who wants to know their dad, at 50 years old, is dead, and largely because nature decided to take him, just for fucks, it seemed.

  
  


Sitting in - where was she, chemistry? - talking about  _ half-lives _ of all things, even as out of it as Clarke was, had been the tipping point on this decidedly horrific day.

  
  


Clarke’s sitting, now, with her back against her bed, on the floor, heaving ugly sobs as she thinks about today and  _ that day _ on repeat. She can’t stop herself, can’t control what’s going on, all she can think is about is that it happened, and that its  _ real. _

  
  


This is her life. Clarke Griffin has lost her dad to some twisted fate at the ripe age of 21, and she’s so beyond devastated and angry, and a million other things that she can’t even stick to one thought long enough to finish it.

  
  


In the end, Clarke has no idea how long she sat there, paralyzed by the grief that had been suspiciously absent, she thought, for weeks up until now. 

  
  


She has no idea how long she’d sat there, letting the hollowed out feeling in her chest swallow her whole, before her door cracked open.

  
  


Clarke didn’t even bother looking to see who it was. She was too tired, even if she’d only been alone for minutes, to turn her head. Besides, whoever it was would obviously make themselves known at any moment.

  
  


Softly, as if not to start Clarke too much, the person eased themselves down to the ground to Clarke’s right.

  
  


Clarke couldn’t see much, but from the long brown hair and deeply comforting and familiar scent, she knew it was Lexa who’d let themselves in.

  
Lexa didn’t immediately say anything, merely turning towards Clarke to brush the hair that had fallen into her face back behind her ears. Gently, she took Clarke’s right hand with her left, and laced their fingers together. 

  
  


Lexa let Clarke fall into her, resting her head on Lexa’s shoulder, which Lexa nuzzled into as soon as she did. She was never overbearing in initiating physical contact, but as soon as it was reciprocated, Lexa would always commit to Clarke’s comfort. 

  
  


Clarke liked to joke that it was Lexa’s love language. They’d been dating for months now, almost an entire year, actually, so Lexa was intimately familiar with what comfort Clarke needed, at any time.

  
  


Just like now, she knew Clarke needed physical comfort, and that Clarke would open up to Lexa as she came down from her hysteria. 

  
  


For a while, they stayed together that way, with Clarke’s head tucked between Lexa’s head and shoulder, while Lexa held her hand, and pressed the occasional kiss into her hair.

  
  


After she’d finally evened out her breathing, and the soft sobs and hiccups subsided, Clarke turned kiss Lexa’s cheek, and moved into her lap. Catching on to what she wanted, Lexa shifted herself to position Clarke between her legs, her back to Lexa’s front. 

  
  


Lexa held her tight against her body, and Clarke reveled in the grounding feeling for a minute more before she broke the silence. 

“He’s really gone, Lex.” 

  
  


Lexa kissed her hair again, and gave Clarke a soft squeeze in response. Lexa knew Clarke didn’t need, nor want, empty words or promises about needing time and holding onto the memories. 

  
  


Lexa herself had experienced too much tragedy to lie or pacify Clarke in that way.

  
  


What started as soft, grounding hugs, ended in Lexa gently swaying Clarke in her arms, rocking them back and forth together. It was the most peaceful Clarke had felt all day. 

  
  


Finally, the blinding fear and pain bubbling under the surface had finally exploded, and now Clarke just felt drained. By no means was she now “okay.” But with Lexa here with her, at least she could breathe again, if only for a short while.

  
  


Clarke sunk into Lexa, going more and more boneless by the second, her emotional breakdown having thoroughly exhausted her. Lexa continued to place the occasional kiss to Clarke’s head, the edge of her forehead, and the back of her hand that was interlocked with Lexa’s own.

  
  


Neither of them had spoken for quite some time, but they didn’t need to. Being in love and knowing each other so well, they didn’t need to. Lexa knew what Clarke needed, as she always did.

  
  


Eventually, Lexa shifted, making to get up off of the floor, and pulled Clarke with her as she went. She took a moment to properly hug the blonde, cradling her head into her shoulder, and kissing Clarke’s forehead, before moving them to the bed.

  
  


Lexa laid down, pulling Clarke into her as the little spoon. “Rest, Clarke. You’ve done enough for the day.” As if already knowing Clarke would protest laying in bed for the rest of the day, Lexa was already whispering reassurances to her, clearly intending to keep Clarke from pushing herself over the brink twice in one day.

  
  


Clarke huffed halfheartedly, not even bothering to argue. She knew Lexa was right, and the only person she’d be putting up a front for was herself. She collapsed into the waiting arms of her girlfriend. She really wasn’t too unhappy about Lexa’s obvious plans just to hold her for the rest of the day, ready to listen or talk, or do anything Clarke needed.

  
  


Laying there together, Clarke let more tears flow, telling Lexa broken, whispered stories about her dad. Lexa nodded along, commenting when needed or appropriate, and keeping Clarke grounded with her touches.

  
  


As she petered off, tiring herself out even more, Clarke rolled over so she could bury herself in Lexa’s chest. The last thing she heard before she drifted into unawareness was the low “I’ve got you” punctuated with another kiss from Lexa. 

  
  


Lexa stayed draped over Clarke like her personal security blanket through the next morning.

  
  


Clarke might break, but Lexa would be there to hold her pieces when she did.


End file.
